


tired of the way you want to live

by Iletyouseeme



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, M/M, On Hiatus, Period Typical Attitudes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18384830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iletyouseeme/pseuds/Iletyouseeme
Summary: Spring 1987:-	Nineteen-year old Will Graham returns home from College. A much-anticipated event in his sleepy hometown, he wonders what has changed, or maybe if he himself has been the only one to change. His family and friends can’t wait to see him. New neighbours are soon to arrive. The course of his life is going to change – but all for much more darker reasons than you think.





	1. Chapter 1

Many resented Beau Graham’s predilection for bourbon. None more so than his sister. Myra was walking through the day room of their small family home in Columbia, Louisiana, having fetched herself a glass of water from the kitchen with the intention of retiring upstairs to bed soon after. There were no lights on downstairs, save for the porch light, which allowed her to see unseen through the window onto the front porch and witness the one-sided nature of Beau Graham’s argument with the ether.

He hadn’t moved from since before sun down, his chair placed in front of the steps leading up to the house. Myra watched, disturbed, as her older brother swigged from a bottle in a brown paper bag. He was talking to himself, so drunk it seemed he believed himself to be in heated discussion. Myra took a guess; it was either going to be his wife, Jane or their son, Will. Considering that the former had died fourteen years ago, Myra assumed that Beau was, in his mind at least, arguing with the latter.

Will had left for College in Louisiana State not six months ago. Having helped look after him since he was five, when his Mama sadly passed, Myra had of course been sad to see him go. She had no children of her own; as it had never occurred to her in younger life. At fifty-four, she was now past the age of children, but it didn’t occur to her to care. Will was, for all intents and purposes, just as much her son as he was to Beau.

However, Beau had not bared the departure of his now nineteen-year-old son much better than he did when Jane was cruelly taken by cancer when the boy was five. At least, this is what Myra had deduced. Despite having tried to care for the boy for many years, and feeling such love for him that she was want to burst with it, Myra couldn’t help but feel on this particular departure there was an element of finality that she could not understand.

She, along with her older brother, felt his loss keenly, almost as if he had died. Myra would sometimes venture into Will’s old room. The Graham’s hadn’t touched it, making it seem rather tomb-like, similar to a memorial. Myra often passed by the door expecting to see Will laying on his side on his cot bed, headphones on, as he once did. Other times, more morbidly, she half-anticipated to walk past the door and see him lying face down, in a pool of his own blood.

But Will had never been suicidal. Sure, he had plenty of issues, but either she or his father had seen to it that he had received the proper care. She had read up on sleep hygiene when he started sleep-walking when he was eight. He’d been screened for autism, at the request of one of his teachers at school, and the doctors had been startled by his IQ, along with how no one else had picked up on it at an earlier stage. Will had gone through so much from such a young age that it was hardly surprising that, at fifteen, the doctors told Myra and her brother that one half of Will’s brain was on fire with Anti-NDMA receptor encephalitis.

All of these things had happened. All of these doctors appointments and medical bills. Trips to the city, time away from the farm, to ensure that Beau and Jane’s only son didn’t die before he was twenty, which was what one particular knucklehead of a doctor had said to them would happen.

He was twenty next month, and the thought warmed Myra’s heart. He would be home for his twentieth birthday. She smiled there to herself in the darkness, watching as her brother ranted and raved in his drunken stupor. Myra wondered idly whether Beau might benefit from some time with the Evangelists across the way. Most folk in Columbia had been raised with God in their lives, but Myra felt like maybe her brother had lost God along the way. She herself went to Church as often as she was able, and had a nice group of friends there. They’d sometimes have iced tea and lemonade in the Church basement on those afternoons when that scorching Louisiana sun was just too much for anybody.

A lot of her lady friends asked about Beau. They remembered him, for being so handsome and friendly as he was when he was young. Myra told her brother this, not too often mind, as she didn’t want him to get too accustomed to hearing such compliments from such nice folk. However, she felt like her brother needed friends. He wasn’t in a good way. His drunken temperament had, much to Myra’s shame, become rather a well-versed hymn amongst some less than desirable persons, and Myra was sure their own parents would be sad to see Beau in such a way, were they still here. However, they surely smiled down on Beau’s son, because everybody liked Beau’s son. There wasn’t a soul in Columbia, or in Caldwell County for that matter, that did not see Will Graham and failed to think he had been made by an angel. With all his troubles, he practically had the temperament of a saint.

Well…of course Myra was biased. But she could name on two hands the number of young ladies who had come sniffing around Wolf Trap farm asking for a certain William Graham. The pipe threader’s daughter, Abigail, and Myra was certain that the Mapp’s young girl Ardelia was sweet on Will too. Her and her friend Clarice were always knocking about up the gravel path to see whether Will was home. Of course, none of that kind of thing truly mattered. He was nice and good, which was the most important thing. As friendly as he could be, despite all his little quirks and ticks, and now, after some discussion, he was even seeing a nice therapist lady in Alexandria once a week or so to discuss his sleep problems every time he was home.

Myra had not had a problem with this development. She would have rather that Will had come met some of her Church basement friends and discussed his thoughts with them, but she wasn’t one to fuss. He hadn’t taken to Church summer camp much either when he was a younger child, but Beau was definitively displeased when he caught wind of Will meeting with a therapist.

“Haven’t we done enough for him? Isn’t he being ungrateful?”

Myra had been quick to reprimand her brother, who despite their three-year age difference, had always seemed a little more childish than herself. She had made him swear on his mother’s life that he would not voice such negativity to his son.

“The boy’s too sensitive, as is. He needs to toughen up, Myra. It’s a harsh world out there.”

She thought it was funny and somewhat hypocritical of Beau to be suggesting such things. She often walked past Will’s old bedroom and found her brother in there. Smelling his clothes. Sat on his bed, that kind of thing.

“Oh, please.” She’d scoff. “You’re about as soft as a warm stick of butter, so never you mind.”

She honestly couldn’t understand why it bothered Beau as much as it did, but perhaps he had become more attached and protective over his son after Jane passed. Will was the only part of her he had left now, anyway. And in some ways he was very much like his brother. Pretty blue eyes and curly hair. As a young boy, his hair had been so dark and long that many a mother at the supermarket or at a service would comment on how beautiful Beau’s little girl was. It only ever made the Graham’s laugh, and Will would blush, however, if he ever got too embarrassed or overwhelmed, the poor lamb always started to cry.

Will’s hair only ever became a problem in middle school. Myra was aware of this as she happened to teach English at that same local comprehensive that Will attended. It helped soothe her nerves, knowing he was near by enough that if anything happened that she could be on call to pick him up and he could sit in the staff meeting room with her, drinking a weak cup of Earl Grey tea, the way he liked it with a few cookies on the side. And Myra had never thought of herself as clairvoyant, but she was it would turn out, incredibly right to make that decision. Poor Will was teased and tormented relentlessly. Kids could be the cruellest creatures, and several of them honed in on Will and his little friend Peter with some sort of Old Testament level style cruelty.

The boy would come home and cry all night. Myra would be making supper whilst Will was being bathed upstairs by his father, but the crying never stopped. If anything, it seemed to get worse. But Myra always attributed this to the fact that Beau was not an overly emotional person. He’d fallen in love with Will’s mother that made Myra think that God himself had matched them. After she’d died, he had never been the same. Only affectionate with Will, Beau often lamented to his sister how beautiful Will was.

“He looks just like his mother, sis. I can’t cope with it.”

“You’re doing a swell job,” she’d pat her brother on the shoulder. “That boy you’re raising is going to be a fine young man someday.”

“But I don’t want him to grow up.” Beau rarely cried, but the thought of his son leaving had often made him burst into uncontrollable tears. He sounded just like Will when he cried.

“I want him to stay here with us, sis.”

“That’s unreasonable and you know it. The boy needs a life better than this, Beauregard. There’s brightness in him, I can just see it.”

Sometimes Beau would concede with this. Will was wonderfully intelligent, and needed to get on some fine course doing some fine degree and make a living for himself somewhere. Beau recognised this. But sometimes, and these times were more regular, Beau would wholeheartedly disagree, even taking steps to prevent it, incentivising Will to stay home by hiring Will’s little friend Peter Barnadone to help tend the animals at the farm after he didn’t finish high school.

It felt like, the more Will pushed to leave, to hang out with the young ladies Clarice and Ardelia a few fields down, the more Beau wanted him to stay. Myra was so excited when Will started to spend days outdoors with his pals. She hoped it would bloom into something more, especially with the young Mapp girl whose parents were both doctors. Yet, it turned out, and the thought still makes Myra’s cheeks blush, those two girls took more of a liking to each other than either of them did to Will. Myra had once gotten them all settled on the front porch with some cold lemonade and some sandwiches, and heard the audacity of those two young ladies, only both eighteen at the time, talking about that some distant day in the future when they were to get married. But Will seemed happy for them, and he didn’t share the older generations views, which was potentially the only thing he and Myra would ever differ on in this lifetime. And Will was so happy to see Peter, who had been three years above him in school. Peter needed the life experience, Will had confided in his Aunty one particular evening. He wanted to train with the animals before going back to high school to get his diploma.

“Do you know why the poor child didn’t finish it in the first place?” Myra asked.

“Some kid called Benjamin Raspail said Peter would be better suited to the circus,” Will said, frowning. “And Peter said he thought Ben was his friend, so he listened and left school.”

“Children are so cruel.”

“Nah, Aunty. People are just cruel.” Will had replied.

“Don’t you go sounding wise beyond your words there, William. You’re too young for that kind of nillyhism.”

Will broke into a smile. “It’s pronounced _nihilism_ , Aunty.”

“Don’t ever you mind that, child. You got a whole lot of living today before you talk back to me about prununciatin’ my words.” But it had made Myra smile, because her boy was just so blessedly smart.

“But carry on with your story, child. Every story needs an ending.”

So when the time did come for Will to leave for College, Myra felt like God had clicked a stopwatch and some part of her life, of her brother’s life, had faded away as Will got onto his bus, not to return for another ten weeks. And when he did return, he would be this new person, one that now devoted his life to his studies, in not only Criminal Justice and Forensic Psychology, but also minoring in Francophone studies, at his Auntie’s request that he did not forget any of his language skills.

“Maybe we’ll be seeing someone from the FBI knock on our door one of these days, Will. They’ll want to offer you a job,” Myra had joked, to which Will had smiled, and told her not to worry about no such nonsense.

In reality, Myra Graham knew very little beyond her small world, which seemed to end along the border fence to their five-acre plot of ancestral soil. She would die in that farm house, as would her brother. God had destined that Beau Graham ought to die a cruel death, not dissimilar to the one his wife had died of fourteen years ago. For Beauregard Graham had been a cruel man. It was, really, quite extraordinary what little his sister had detected of his activities, considering their father had always deemed her smarter than himself. How truly little she knew about why Will needed so much therapy, or why the boy was so flighty.

If anything, for Beauregard, it made the entire thing sweeter and more exciting. Knowing that his family was so near. It’s what drove him to do what he did. He loved his family. He had loved his wife, and he loved his boy.

So very much.

He had stopped believing in higher powers when his wife was taken from him and in her stead, God played the cruellest trick, bringing her back to life in Will. His eyes, so blue and bright. His hair, thick like hers had been. Just as soft to the touch. Those small features, slim frame, all of it, _all of it_ , was _her_. Acts that once felt magnificent and quelled those urges so effectively soon became to be insufficient, and Beauregard Graham would look at his son the way starving men may look at a feast.

It made Beau rage with jealousy, truth be told, when those young girls would fawn over him, when Matthew Brown, the stable hand brought in to help useless little Peter Barnadone, would think himself clever – Beau would watch from the house as the two boys conversed. Brown was a little older, knew people that could get them both cigarettes and cheap beer. Took Will to parties, kissed him when and where he could and pretended not to remember anything in the morning.

Beau wanted to strangle that bug-eyed freak. But he was old, and drunk, and this is what he was discussing on his front porch to himself, unaware that his sister was watching through the window at his back.

“God,” Beau called, chin titled skyward. He said his curses upon Matthew, took a swig, cursed Peter Barnadone, and another swig, and he then cursed upon anyone that dared touch his boy – his lovely Will, who would be back home for spring break in little less than a week. His beautiful boy, back in Columbia, back at the farm, where he belonged.

Beau wanted to see to it that Will never left. And sure, Fate would not intervene for the most part, and the path that was chosen was going to play out. However, that did not mean that there was not be any deviance from that path. For Beau was not aware that perhaps, he should have said a few more curses, and condemned a few more souls.

God intended for Beau Graham to die slowly, which was why at that same moment in time cells in his body were dividing rapidly, too rapidly, and entering into the wrong system of organs. Beginning to mutate. Beginning to grow.

However, Beau Graham would not die slowly. He would die unexpectedly, and very soon. In the same chair he was sat in at that exact same moment in time.

And it would be the one person whom he loved the most that would be the one to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

Whilst Beau Graham’s body was busy creating an impressively large tumour, the man that would inevitably uncover it was nearly 1300 miles east, at a gay bar in Maryland. Well, to be more precise, he was currently projectile vomiting all over some petunias that were sat innocently in a neat little hedgerow on the corner of the street.

His name was Jimmy Price, and –

_“Happy birthday, Jim!”_

– And let’s just say, he was very drunk.

*

It had started with the tequila slammers. Some downright _moron_ had suggested Jim try his darndest to shoot fifty, one for each year of his fabulous, gay life. And whilst he had managed to get to about eight before he felt like he wanted to literally crawl into a hole and die, Jim spent the rest of the evening fobbing off any shots to anyone who would take them.

One of those obviously very benevolent individuals had been Brian Zeller. Brian might have been the same aforementioned _moron_ who suggested the whole idea in the first place. Either way, he was currently losing a drinking contest to Beverly Katz (which no one was shocked by) before the two of them were bout to hit up some serious ‘roke, before they all got kicked out.

Neither of those two bastards (see ‘bastards’ listed under terms of general affection) had thought to offer to hold his hair back, or any of that usual crap. Woe betide either Brian or Katz to so much as notice as Jim bolted from his spot at the bar to make a beeline for the front door. However, and despite his current predicament, of doubling over (and not in a fun way) and heaving his guts out onto those poor tiny red little flowers, Jim was feeling an acceptable amount of warm and fuzzies over the fact that, well, it was his birthday, and that his work friends had met some of his life-long friends, and that the evening had gone off mostly without a hitch.

On that thought.

Jim hunched over again. He was cold now. The alcohol violently escaping him had been keeping him blissfully unaware that it was still April and it was still _fucking freezing_. He was also aware that he was vomiting literally like thirty dollars’ worth of booze up at a time.

He just had to get it out, he thought impatiently. Dolly Parton would be coming on soon, and he would honestly commit serious murder if by the time he got back someone had stolen the blond pompadour wig and was blaring out an off-key rendition of “9 to 5,” which everyone knew was _his_ song. And more importantly _his_ wig.

“You alright, love?” Jim turned. It was Nigel. God, what an angel.

His partner of twelve years walked over. Sheesh, maybe Nige was a bit tipsy as well.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Jim said. Gosh, it was really was very cold now. “Just suffering, is all.”

Nigel barked out a laugh. The younger man had always had such a great laugh. “You’re such a saint, sweetheart.”

Nigel was also _terribly_ British, and despite having got his citizenship over fifteen years ago, he still came out with all these cute little Britishisms that made Jim literally weak at the knees.

Though maybe that was the tennis he played the other day.

“I know,” Jim joined in. “Am I too young to be canonised? What do you reckon?”

Nigel patted his back. Jim could smell his warmth, what was left of the cologne he had put on before they left the house. He must’ve been dancing. Smelt like how he always smelt after he’d done some sort of exercise.

Or like how he smelt after they had sex. The thought made Jim’s stomach clench. More so than when he was vomiting, of course, and for _entirely_ different reasons.

“Definitely still too young,” Nigel concurred. “Do you want me to call a cab, darling?”

A hand circled around his waist. Even though it was nearing two am, they still had to be careful. Someone might see them.

But Nigel just looked so handsome. Jim pulled him into an embrace.

“I really want to kiss you, y’know?” Jim said. He was definitely being super, duper smooth. “I could even show you a good time,” he paused for added effect. “Take you to the toilet out back. Make you remember why you fell for me, all that time ago.”

Nigel laughed again. The sound reverberated from his chest to Jim’s smaller one. He pulled away, holding onto Jim’s shoulders, looking at him with those pretty brown eyes.

“Well,” he said, casual-bordering-on-conspiratorial, “I was thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Well,” he said. God, was he blushing?

“Spit it out, man,” Jim rushed.

“Maybe, as it is your birthday and all, maybe tonight, I could show _you_ a good time?”

Desire coiled through Jim, all the way to his puke-covered shoes.

“ _You want to top tonight_?” He asked, incredulous. Even though Nigel could have arguably been said to have been a bit of a bull, if one were thinking in gay-tribe terms, that didn’t mean anything when he and Jim were in the bedroom.

Nigel nodded, looking a little shy. “I want tonight to be all about you, love.”

Jim felt his insides turn to mush. “Are you sure?”

He nodded again. “Of course. After we’re done here. Are you well enough, you think?”

They both looked rather absently at the not insignificant pile of vomit on the ground. Jim did feel a little woozy, it had to be said.

But not even impending nuclear apocalypse would stop him now.

“I’ll drink a bunch of water and I’ll be fine,” he said, trying to contain his excitement at what the remainder of the night held in store for him. He’d honestly leave now if he could, take Nigel with him, rush them both up the stairs to their apartment and make love like they were both twenty-five again. Like one of them didn’t have sciatica. Like the other didn’t have an incredibly morbid day job.

Nigel kissed him. He pulled back, looking amused.

“Maybe you need some gum too, huh?”

Jim snorted. “Says the man that’s literally eaten my ass more times than I can count.”

He laughed again. Jim wanted to keep making him laugh until they both were blue in the face.

“Calm down, trouble,” he teased. Jim loved it, and was basking in the attention, when Brian Zeller popped his outside the door to the bar. He looked rather comical without a body, and with the door open, Jim could hear the opening score of _Jolene_ being played.

“You done now, old man?” Brian hollered from the door. He was red in the face, not looking too well himself.

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” Jim called back. Nigel snickered from beside him. “Where’s Bev?”

“She’s trying to find that goddamn wig you wouldn’t stop fussing over. You coming inside or what?”

Jim turned to look at his partner. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Suit yourself,” and with that Brian disappeared.

Nigel smiled. “Your boy’s trying to pretend like he’s not loving a bunch of queens being after him all evening.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Jim said. “Watch though, he’ll be telling me on Monday morning that he hated the entire thing, and all them queers after him made him uncomfortable.”

“Well, it’s a lot to ask of a straight man, love,” Nigel said. “He’s probably never seen anything like it.”

Jim had to agree there. He wondered whether people in ten years, or in twenty, or even in another fifty, would live in a time without all the crap Jim, Nigel, all their friends grew up with. 

“Hey, maybe one day they’ll be gay folk on the television. That’ll show the straights what they’re missing.”

Nigel laughed again. “And you’ll be there hosting the show, love.”

Jim turned to look at him. “Maybe in another life time. This one I’m happy to spend with you.”

Maybe he caught Nigel off-guard, because the man looked like he was going to cry. He pulled Jimmy close, on-lookers be damned.

“I love you so much, you hear me?”

“And I love you, big boy,” Jim said back affectionally. “And we’re gonna be able to get married one day.” He added.

“We got married a long time ago,” Nigel said.

“Legally, then,” Jim smiled, looking up at the taller man. “In front of all our friends, even the dead ones. I’m not leaving this Earth until you marry me.”

“We can make that your birthday wish then, shouldn’t we?”

“Sounds good to me. That’s what we can wish for,” Jim couldn’t really deal with all the emotional stuff, especially not when he was drunk. “We can wish for us to have the right to get married, and for you to not fall asleep before we get home so you can fuck me.”

Nigel’s hand swatted over his butt. “God, you’re terrible, you are.” But the other man was smiling, because when wasn’t he being an absolute ray of sunshine?

“Now, come on. We’ve got some Dolly Parton to sing.”

“Ok. But promise me one thing?”

“Sure.”

“Remind me in the morning to write to whomever gave birth to Brian Zeller – they need a strongly worded letter on why their son has become the bane of my existence.”

*

Now that Jimmy Price was fifty, he had the delight of using the excuse that _he wasn’t a young man anymore_ and that he possibly couldn’t continue to do those things that young men love to do. Whenever Nigel begged sweetly to be fucked in the shower, Jim would groan, citing his knees and his back as conspiring against his will to make his lover happy. However, a compromise of fucking in the tub, would that not suffice? It usually did, and the water would slosh merrily over the side of the bath as Jim put all his effort into making Nigel cum, all from the comfort of a sedentary position.

There were other benefits too. Jim had phoned one of those life insurance companies, and just for calling some mail arrived a few days later full of gift vouchers and a new digital radio player, which was now sentinel on top of the microwave in the kitchen of their apartment. Music blasted continuously and there were often times when him and Nigel, along with their friends, would partake in some drunken square dancing on the kitchen linoleum.

However, being old did have some drawbacks. When Jimmy woke up on Saturday morning, well, at three pm on Saturday afternoon, he didn’t feel as sprightly as he once may have done. In his twenties, he would have popped some Advil and gone about his merry way. Only now, with thirty years between those glorious, sunlit days of him being young and his skin not being covered in wrinkles and age spots, Jim felt like shit. Like actual crap.

“This is an ungodly punishment.” He said to no one in particular. The efforts of the afternoon sun to gain entry into their bedroom were being thwarted by the blinds, but it still gave the room a soft yellow glow.

The comforter moved next to him. Ah. It seemed that maybe Nigel hadn’t gotten out of bed yet either. Jim shuffled nearer, aware of a feeling pleasantly sore. Nigel snuffled, somewhere between being asleep and being awake.

“Oh, I feel like death,” Jim heard him lament from under the covers. He let out a half-hearted laugh. At least it wasn’t just him.

“Do you have anything to do today?” He asked.

Nigel groaned again. “I probably need to shit my guts out,” he said, “but other than that I’m all yours.”

Jim laughed properly this time. “I did not require such copious detail.”

There was a pause. “Shut up, darling. I can’t deal with you being articulate right now.”

Jim shuffled ever closer. He could feel the other man’s warmth. “Don’t tell me to shut up, it’s my birthday.”

His partner finally appeared from underneath the comforter. “Yesterday was your birthday.” Nigel’s hand was in Jim’s hair. He was on his back, smiling absently. Warm from sleep, pleased when Jim rested his chin in the divot of his chest.

“But I can still get breakfast in bed?” Jim asked. He was pouting. A tried and tested seduction technique.

Admittedly, Nigel would gladly do anything for Jimmy. Move across the world? He’d already done that. Learn all the US states? Passed that exam with flying colours.

But breakfast in bed. When he was _this_ hungover.

“Can I shit first?”

“As long as you wash your hands after.”

Such a charming man.

“Ok,” Nigel said. “But I’ll need to ask you to move.”

“Ok, well, maybe breakfast in five minutes.”

They both laughed, smiling and enamoured.

“Did you like your birthday treat?” He asked, referring to what happened after the karaoke and before they went to sleep.

Jim nodded. He could feel dry cum crusted between his legs. “I don’t remember you not putting a condom on.”

Nigel smiled, a little wickedly. “ _Extra_ -special, just for you.”

“I guess I’ll have to take a shower when you’re having your much-anticipated shit.”

“That’s a level of intimacy I’m not entirely comfortable with,” Nigel admitted. He loved a good poo joke, that’s for sure, but _that_ would be too far. “I don’t want our level of domesticity to reach new heights necessarily.”

“Such big words. Are you sure your hungover?”

“Ssh, ssh,” Nigel replied. He placed his finger to Jim’s lips. This was a mistake, however, when Jim began sucking on it. He was moaning around it, taking it into his mouth. Nigel could feel himself getting hard.

“If you ever want breakfast, you need to stop,” he warned.

The temperature in the room seemed to change.

“How about you be my breakfast?” Jim purred. He arched his brow, his own cock leaking onto the sheet beneath him.

Nigel thought for a second. The decision didn’t take a long time to process.

He rolled Jim over onto his back, got between his thighs as he had done only a few hours before.

“Are you sure?”

He always asked.

“Yes.”

Was the answer he always got back.

“We can order pizza later,” he said. They were both already naked. This wouldn’t take long.

His fingers breached Jimmy.

“Do you want pizza later?” Nigel asked.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me, would you?”

So he did.


	3. Chapter 3

“You ever think about people in their cars?”

Margot looked up, squinting from behind her sunglasses.

“What?”

Maybe the blunt had hit him. Maybe he was just curious.

“Do you ever think about people in their cars? Who they are? What they’re doin’? Where they’re goin’?”

“I think that’s just you, Will,” Margot said, laughing to herself. As if such a question didn’t pain her. As if her response didn’t pain him.

“It can’t be,” he protested. “There’s gotta be a word for it.”

_I can’t be the only one_ , was what he meant to say.

Now Will Graham was no narcissist. He wasn’t the type to look at himself in every available reflective surface, or insert himself into a conversation. He was, simply put, a lonely boy. One that had grown up poor, with the open air around him and not much else. There was a reason city folk loved to come to the country, because it gave them time to think. When you grew up in the country, all you seemed to do was think.

He was lonely and he was trying to fight that feeling of loneliness. By looking for connections. To see if his brain functioned the same way other people’s brains did. If he was normal in that respect – to ask questions because he was searching for connection.

Just so as not to feel so alone.

“I think you just think too much, y’know,” Margot said, and hadn’t Will been told that his entire life. She smiled though, a small smile not quite reaching her eyes. It was in spite of the darkness she felt they shared. The darkness that rolled off Will Graham like waves lapping against the shore.

They hadn’t hung out much. She’d met Will at a party that both of them had been reluctant to go to. He liked to smoke, cigarettes mainly, but Margot knew where to score. They’d met outside. He’d had a lighter, and had been slowly working his way through his pack of twenty so as to ease his nerves.

He hadn’t felt any around her. They’d laughed. Her presence was almost soothing, and she had a wicked sense of humour. It was kind of odd, really, how at College total strangers could bond the way they had; over the sharing of a cigarette. Will was now one of Margot’s better friends, when in reality she’d only ever struck up a conversation with him at that party because she knew it would have pissed off her brother.

The fact that Will liked to smoke was one of the few facts she knew about him. Theirs was a friendship of kindred spirits forged through mutual rebellion. As simple as smoking at a frat party and sharing a double whiskey coke outside.

But, right now, Margot was pretty blazed. It was a Saturday, after all. Her and Will weren’t the only ones enjoying a toke in the back garden of her sorority. The sun was shining, and there was a beach towel underneath them to stop the grass staining their clothes. She looked at him again. God, he was even prettier in this light, with the edges of her vision all blurry and with her feeling more friendly than she actually knew to be true.

She picked at the red paint on her nails. “Tell me about home,” she said. It was common for people to get sentimental when they were high. Though she was more curious.

Not Will though. “Not much to tell,” he said.

“Oh, don’t clam up now, Mr Thoughtful,” she teased. “Tell me about Louisiana.”

She’d heard it was all fields and rednecks. Godfearing folk. She wondered if it was true.

Will conceded, she knew from the smile he gave her. “What do you want to know?”

_Why are you so sad?_ She wanted to ask.

“What are your family like?” Is what she asked instead.

Will’s gaze returned skyward, his dark curls greeting the grass beneath them.

He took another hit. “My Momma died when I was small,” he said without passion.

“Mine too,” she said.

“She did?” He asked. “I’m sorry about that.”

Everyone always said that. It was common courtesy. Margot was never one for niceties, however.

“You don’t have to be,” she said. Will paused.

“What did she die of?” He wondered whether her Momma had died of cancer like his had. They’d been so connected thus far, he wouldn’t have even been surprised.

She snorted next to him, her smile dark. “Probably being married to my Dad,” she said. Will wasn’t entirely sure she was joking. He waited for her to continue.

“She died when Mason and I were about twelve. Drowned in our pool out back when the rest of us were all watching the Independence Day parade on the television. Dad had bought it special for the occasion.”

Will inhaled. It sounded like a gasp.

“Christ,” he said. Paused. “Was she drunk?”

Margot shook her head. Somehow, despite her asking the questions, Graham had turned the conversation on her. He managed it every time, and without even trying.

“She just couldn’t swim.”

“My Grandpa had an older brother.” Will began. It was his turn now. “Depressed. Climbed a pylon and electrocuted himself.”

Margot inhaled a bunch of smoke. She coughed, looked at him over her glasses and managed a splutter. “That’s insane.”

Will nodded in agreement. “He didn’t die though. Somehow.”

“But what happened to him?”

“Just sorta lived as a vegetable for a few more years. He had to have a lot of surgery ‘cuz his insides were all fried. My Grandpa spent all his money on keeping him alive.”

Margot didn’t know whether to comment, so she let Will continue.

“He still had some sort of motor function in his upper body though.” He said. “And as far as I know, he either managed to get hold of an air rifle – the one’s they use to shoot the pigeons with – or he got someone to do it for him.”

“He got someone to shoot him?”

“He’d wanted to be dead for a long time,” Will said, like the fact alone was some form of waiver. “Right between the eyes.” He used his forefinger to demonstrate. “Same house as we live in now.”

Margot shuddered, and then they both paused. The sorority garden was relatively busy, with people chatting in various spots. Smoking on the benches. Lazily playing soccer in the afternoon sun.

Theirs was not a conversation for such weather, but Margot couldn’t quite help herself.

“You don’t die quick from an air rifle,” she said.

“No, you don’t,” Will said back, with a grimace. He looked at her again. “Would you rather electrocute yourself and then get shot in the head or drown in a pool?” He asked.

She snorted. She was just one of those people to laugh at morbid things. Even at her own Momma, lying in her open casket. Will was too though, which explained why he was chuckling at their mutual but equally brazen disregard for mortality.

“I think she did it on purpose,” Margot said after a few more feeble laughs escaped her. She remembered her Momma. Her hair colour. Her voice. It made her chest hurt to think about her.

“I think she did it on purpose,” she said again, “so maybe she’s happier now.”

“That’s what God promises,” Will said blandly. “You’re supposed to be happier in the next life than you are in this one.”

“Well, that’s good then.”

“None of my family can swim,” he admitted. Margot’s ancestors were from the South too. He wondered if there was a correlation there.

“No?” She asked.

“Nah,” Will said. “I think my Grandpa tried to teach my Dad and Aunt how to swim when they were kids.”

“And how did that go?” Margot could already imagine.

“He threw them in the bog about three fields down from the farm.” Will laughed. “They both got sick from all the crap in the water. To this day Pop won’t take a bath without an almighty fuss.”

Margot sputtered a laugh. “Seriously?” She asked incredulously. “Our Dad did that to us.”

“For real?” He looked sceptical. Amused, yet still sceptical. “After your Momma and all?”

“For real,” she nodded. She looked very sage when she did that, a little bit like Myra when she was intoning something about the Bible.

“He took us to Rocky Gorge and threw me and Mason off the platform.”

“And I suppose it didn’t end well?”

“You’d be right,” she said. “Mason nearly drowned.” She’d grown up her entire life in Maryland, but after that day the Vergers never visited the lakes again. Margot was nineteen years old now, and had never even seen Chesapeake Bay.

Will looked at her. He had _that_ look in his eye. Like he knew everything about you, but he didn’t judge you for it.

“Do you secretly wish he had?” He asked.

“What? That Mason had drowned?” She tried to shirk it off. “Only someone like you, Graham, would ask something so morbid.”

But she didn’t say no. “Only someone like me would ask that because only someone like me knows you well enough to know that you wish he had.”

Margot looked at him, searching those blue, inquisitive eyes for anything that would lead her to believe he wasn’t being earnest. She found nothing, except that his countenance had grown dark. Morbid thoughts for a morbid face.

He was right, however. And that’s what Will Graham could read from her face. He was _so_ right, that she felt the urge to kiss him. To kiss him like the way they’d done that night they’d first met.

They’d both gone back to her dorm room that night. Undressed each other, kissed and done more. Shared another cigarette afterwards.

It was the first time Will had ever had sex with a girl.

It was also the first time Margot had ever had sex willingly.

And now it was his body on top of hers that plagued her thoughts. How good sex could feel. It was all she could think about. Even with Will lying in front of her now, his blue eyes ringed with red from the weed, sweating in the afternoon sun, she had the urge to roll him on his back and not give a single fuck about any other person in the garden. She wanted to try new things with him. She was enamoured to the point of self-disgust. She had found so much pleasure in their shared darkness, she felt addicted. And, to her knowledge, he felt the same way.

She felt too far away from him now, with all but a beach towel between them. After that night, her other friends noticed how their attraction to one another. She was the only girl that Will Graham had slept with, after all, which had immediately ingrained into the other girls that she, Margot, had been propelled to the top of the food chain. She didn’t like to spend time examining this, or the ingrained sexism that it reeked of, but for all intents and purposes, it was true. The other girls in the sorority, even some of the older girls, looked at Margot with some form of reverence. Graham was flighty. Beautiful, but flighty. He was also easily bored, but he never seemed bored by her.

“Do you ever wish you’d done it?” He asked, drawing her back from her thoughts.

“Let him drown?”

She suspected that Will knew more than he was letting on.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Why? What have you heard?”

No one could begrudge Margot Verger her paranoia. Rumours had circled her family like vultures for years.

“I don’t know anything,” he said. It was the truth. “You just talk about him sometimes and he doesn’t sound that nice.”

It was a weak answer, they both knew. Margot scoffed.

“Don’t be coy with me, Graham,” she said.

She looked angry. Graham had to admit, he liked her more when she was angry.

“I just have a feeling,” he said. Both his Pop and Myra used to joke that Will had some of that Louisiana voodoo in him. No one knew to the extent to which it was true, it just so happened he was freakishly right about some things. Knew things he didn’t have any business knowing, nor could he explain the reason behind why he knew those things in the first place.

“That’s funny,” Margot said, despite not sounding amused. Will grinned, enjoying her anger. He could feel it against his teeth, and at the end of his fingers and toes.

She poked him in the chest. Desire bolted between the two of them. Before that point, and after their one night together, their bodies hadn’t so much as brushed once. She was commanding attention, and Will Graham was most receptive.

“I often get that feeling about you,” she said, a smug smile on her face.

He held her hand to his chest. Looked her in the eyes. A rare treat, she mused. Graham wasn’t fond of eye contact.

“What?” He asked. He didn’t sound reproachful, only curious. “That I’m a psychopath?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we’re just a bunch of psychopaths helping each other out.”

He paused, her fingers still in the grasp of his hand. Was there a darkness in her the way there was a darkness in him? A subcutaneous monster – roaring and raging with fury at being caged under a single layer of epidermis. So close to freedom, but without reason to be set free.

The answer was yes. It was a fact. One that both Will and Margot, along with those closest to them, would come to know. The question was not _if_ , but _when_. And _who? Who would set Will Graham free?_

“Do you ever wish your Pop died, Will?”

There was the crucial question. Could Will Graham bring himself to acknowledge what was happening, and what had been happening, for as long as he could remember? The love that his father reeked of, which was so often weaponised, so often the reason why he was shoved against walls, or down onto his own bed, a hand over his mouth to stop the screaming – _what was going to become of that?_

The monster in him didn’t know any better. Simply, the monster in him _didn’t know_.

But Margot Verger was not done being cruel. The Vergers had an unnatural propensity for being cruel.

“Maybe one day he gets in the bath and someone holds his head under the water until he stops moving,” it came out like a whisper, with the images of his father thrashing so vivid in Will’s mind.

It wouldn’t take much, he knew. Both Beau and Myra suffered from the same form of aggressive arthritis, hers only less aggressive given the fact that her lifestyle choices were better. Maybe her soul was purer. Either way, with the way the old man was going, he wasn't destined to reach retiring age.

“As a kid, I used to think maybe Pop would get punished.” He said. “That he’d die and the entire house would collapse on top of him. I even tried to intervene at one point.”

“You did?” Margot was, quite shamelessly, enthralled.

“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing her fingers with his thumb. “I found some dynamite once. The kind we use to blow up rocks under the soil where you want to plant some more crops. I was going to stick it in the eaves of the house, right above his bedroom.”

“What happened?”

Will laughed. His fourteen-year-old self had not been very thorough. “Aunt Myra wouldn’t let me at the matches,” he said.

Margot smiled weakly. She looked over his shoulder, potentially just into the distance. “Imagine if she had.”

Will had done. The thought had plagued him more often than anyone could say was healthy. Often he felt vindicated. Sometimes he felt relieved. That he hadn't done it, and that it had been Myra to find him looking for the matches.

“I wouldn’t have met you, if I had done it,” he said. There was fondness in his voice.

“That would have been a tragedy,” Margot said back, entirely in earnest.

“Promise that if you ever go ahead with it, you’ll let me watch?”

He laughed. God, they were as twisted as each other.

“On the condition that you get around to drowning your brother in a lake,” he retorted. Paused; exhaled; let go of her hand.

“It’d be the most exciting thing to ever happen in my hometown, either way,” he said, and that was the end of that.

They both laughed. The warmth of sun was fading, for it was now being shrouded in cloud. Margot and Will finished their joint, continuing to chat and laugh whilst the rest of the sorority seemed to fade out, until they felt like they were totally alone. They continued to laugh; new inside-jokes having formed from the conversation that had just taken place.

The thought of anything ever happening in Columbia, Louisiana was as hilarious to them as it was pitiful.

If only they knew they were wrong.

For on that same Saturday afternoon as they lay in the sun, and as Jimmy Price awoke from his hangover, and as Myra Graham finally convinced her brother to come with her to Church for an hour or two – something _terrible_ in fact, was happening in the small town of Columbia, Louisiana.

Abigail Hobbs, the pipe-threader’s daughter, was bleeding to death on the floor of her kitchen.

The Minnesota Shrike was back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was arguably the most fiddly so far, and I apologise that there has been some time between this latest chapter and the one before it. I chose to write from Chilton's perspective in the end, as I did in fact spend most of the day writing a chapter on Brian Zeller and found myself becoming very bored with that particular plot line. Needless to say, if it was boring for me, I didn't want to subject any one else to it. I may return to Brian, as he is an interesting character, but pace is of the essence. Chilton was incredibly fun to write, given how pompous he is. This particular chapter is notably shorter than its predecessors, but in the end I feel as though Chapter Four has given me enough grief that I want to cast it into the world and continue the story along. Regardless, I hope whoever is reading this enjoys, and accepts my genuine gratitude - I've had lovely comments so far and feel very pleased that what I'm writing for fun is something that those reading are enjoying. I am writing the story purely for self-indulgence, and I hope never to take it too seriously.  
> Thank you all so much.

Abigail Hobbs died on the 11th of April 1987.

The day was one that was easily forgotten, much like Abigail herself.

The coroner’s report would detail the evisceration of her throat and the homemade, almost primitive blade that had caused such irreparable damage to the carotids, as well as the jugular. Her body had worked to rapidly breakdown the glycogen stored in her muscles, and had produced high levels of lactic acid. This was a common biological response, often seen in slaughter animals exposed to short periods of severe stress.

However, there were no signs of struggle, nor did she display any characteristic defensive injuries. No fingerprints could be found, aside from the partial thumb print across her larynx, which had been exposed as her throat was cut open. The neck muscles were also tensed, suggesting that she had meant to scream, only she had not had the chance.

Abigail Hobbs had bled to death in little under four minutes; a fact which would grow ultimately very tiresome to one Frederick Chilton, due to the fact that the man on the other end of the telephone would not relent on _wittering_ _on about it._

“Jack,” Chilton held the telephone up to his ear. If anyone were to witness this, they would have noted how startlingly uncomfortable Chilton looked in doing so. He held the telephone with such trepidation that one could easily be mistaken into believing him to be holding a rather flighty and exceptionally dangerous animal. However, in the knowledge that portable telephones were the latest luxury item, this hadn’t prevented Frederick from buying one for nearly every room in his house, his car and for his work office.

It sent the right sort of message to the right sort of people, after all. Yet, Frederick had never anticipated that the thing would actually _ring_. Moreover, he was somewhat aggrieved to realise that in advertising the fact that did indeed own several wirelesses, he had now rather unwittingly given one Jack Crawford seemingly unfettered access to his person.

And by God, the man could certainly _natter on_.

“Jack,” Frederick called into the phone again. He was loathed to let the other man continue, in case he were to expire from lack of breath, and himself from sheer boredom “I must ask you why this is of any relevance to _me_. It is a Sunday, after all.”

He had been in the process of getting ready for a rather luxurious bath, which was becoming the rather ritualistic treat that followed forcing himself to go to yoga every Sunday morning. Frederick liked to care for himself, it couldn’t be denied, and the lifestyle of a rather much pampered cat that was prone to overindulgence in fancy and frippery was one that had come to most closely resemble his own.

That did not mean, however, that he wanted to look like one. So yoga was a must, and therefore so was his bath.

“Until twenty-four hours ago, I was of the opinion that the Minnesota Shrike was dead,” came the rather brutish response from the other line.

“Yes,” Frederick failed to keep the distain from his voice. Jack Crawford was certainly one for the dramatic. It was all rather tiresome that their paths crossed so frequently these days. “Yes, this is all very unfortunate.”

“A teenager had her throat slit in her own home,” Jack replied, noting how frivolous this all seemed to Chilton. “Let us not also omit the fact that her mother was found – killed the same way before we even got through the front door.”

“And where is the father?” Enquired Chilton.

“He took off,” Jack said.

“Then surely he is the one we need to be having a discussion with.”

“I’ve had the team inform the local authorities. We need to plan a course of action with our guys at the lab as soon as is possible, Doctor Chilton.”

“Look,” the other man started. “I really am failing to grasp where I am involved in all of this.”

“Well, if you recall, it was on _your_ authority that we reported the Shrike as dead four years ago.”

Frederick found himself to be becoming quite disgruntled with all of this. “Look, Mr Crawford – ”

“ – _Special Agent_ Crawford – ”

“ – Yes, _whatever it is_ ,” Frederick did truly find the man most disagreeable. “1983 was an unfortunate year for all of us.”

“That is not the point, sir,” Jack butted in.

“No, it is not,” Frederick agreed. “Nor will mine ever be made _if you don’t let me finish_.”

Jack let out a resounding sigh down the phone. “Please, Doctor. Continue.”

“As I recall it, and do feel free to correct me if I’m wrong,” Frederick said, though he would argue he had never been wrong even once in his life, “that it was in the public interest to name Miggs as the Shrike. In fact, I don’t recall ever hearing a complaint that it was on my word that the man was sent to San Quentin to fry.”

Much had changed in the years elapsed. It was the Miggs case, as well as the rather salacious novel that Frederick wrote about the man after his execution, that had seen him soar through the ranks. Frederick now had a rather cushy administrative role within the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, interacting with far fewer psychotics than he done in his years actually practicing psychiatry, and all for much better pay.

“And if I remember correctly, Crawford,” Frederick continued, omitting the other man’s title because he at this point simply could not be bothered, “you were in fact made aware that we could not entirely _confirm_ Miggs to be the Shrike, but you certainly seemed satisfied to have half the newspapers on Wall Street off your back.”

“And _I_ understand, sir,” Crawford responded. “That it was an imposition for you to go to such lengths to put the general public at ease, as well as myself.”

 _Now that was more like it_ , Chilton thought. “Yes, it was all rather hectic in those days. You understand it is not good for anyone’s mental state to be exposed to such levels of pressure for such an expansive period of time.”

Frederick had written only one letter. _Only_ _one_. His power was as widespread as his imagination was fanciful.

“So we can both agree that it was in both our vested interests to perform such a slight deception at that time, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” the other man sounded utterly defeated.

“And you see why I am dissatisfied at the notion of unravelling that same debacle once again, all for a few hillbillies in the South.”

“I do understand, Doctor Chilton.”

“Then do we really need to be discussing this at such length?” Chilton asked. His bath was surely cold by now. “As I am sure there will be a car waiting for me tomorrow morning to drive me to your facility so that we may discuss this once again amidst a variety of professionals.”

“I believe it would be in your best interest to do so, yes, Doctor Chilton.”

“What is in my best interest, young man,” Chilton responded. He was only fifteen months older than Jack Crawford, but he liked to announce his superiority as well as imbue it, “would be to write another book about some other _twisted_ individual and take the earnings and live in the Bahamas until all of this is over.”

“If only we all shared your capacity to write, Doctor,” came Jack’s response.

“ _If_ only,” Chilton seethed. “If I am to hear from you again today, I shall take it upon myself to imagine that something as equally as unfortunate as this conversation has occurred. Better yet, I’ll sit rapturously at my desk and await nightfall so I may summon the poor dead Hobbs girl and have her tell me all I need to write my new book.”

There was a heavy silence down the line. Chilton did so love to outwit his opponents. He was practically glee with the smugness of it all.

“Shall I say _adieu_ then, _Special Agent_ Crawford?” He asked after another moment.

“One thing, more. If I may, Doctor Chilton.”

“Proceed.”

There was a pause. “As you are probably aware, Dr Du Maurier has, as of last fall, retired from practice.”

“Yes,” Chilton responded. “I understand a patient attacked her upon the suggestion of a referral.”

“Correct, sir,” Jack said. “And she has asked that FBI do not contact her again.”

“How unfortunate.”

“And I understand your preference for working with Doctor Du Maurier,” Jack continued. “And in my last conversation with her, she suggested that were the BSU ever to need a helping hand to provide some psychiatric perspective, that I contact a colleague and personal friend of hers.”

“And who is this friend?” Dr Du Maurier was not well known for being one for friends, though she had tolerated Doctor Chilton aptly for many years. He had been persistent with her, but she had always claimed to be married to the job. It was a pity really; the woman did have rather stunning legs.

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” came the response. “Have you heard of him before?”

In truth, Chilton had not. This did not prevent him from seething with jealousy. However, Jack Crawford did not need to be aware of this.

“Of course,” Chilton said, endeavouring to sound congenial. “It’s been quite a few years since I’ve seen ol’ Hannibal Lecter.”

Frederick wasn’t even sure he was saying the man’s name correctly.

“Well, that’s excellent,” Jack sounded genuinely pleased for perhaps the first time during this entire conversation. “He will be joining us tomorrow, as I am eager to bring fresh blood into the force.”

“Yes, yes,” Chilton said dismissively. “I am sure we shall all be a merry number.” He truly was dreadfully irked by such an arrangement. Physicians were even more territorial than law enforcement, and Chilton was no exception. He had no idea what to expect of this Doctor Lecter, though he couldn’t imagine the man being even half as inspirational, or as downright lovely, as Doctor Du Maurier had been. If anything, the thought of potentially being judged by another of his craft was something Chilton had grown quite uncomfortable with. Though of course, such an attack on his person had not occurred for quite some time.

 _If ever_ , one could argue.

“Well, if that’s all, sir,” Frederick fought to maintain his façade of civility. “I’m afraid I am terribly busy and must be off.”

“I shall see you tomorrow, Doctor Chilton.” And thus concluded their conversation.

Frederick let out a much-relieved sigh, pondering absently about what he ought to wear tomorrow so as best to oust this posturing Doctor Lecter from his perch. For to feel threatened by the mere notion of Doctor Hannibal Lecter may have been the only sensible thing he did throughout his entire adult life. The chill that he felt down his spine upon hearing the man’s name during that telephone call was one not unlike that of a moment of clairvoyance, a voice in his head telling him to run. 

And Doctor Frederick Chilton should have listened to that voice, however quiet it was.

In fact, that voice sounded something similar to Doctor Du Maurier. Had Frederick Chilton spent less time musing over the fineness of her physique, or the glossiness of her hair during their time together as colleagues, he may have listened to the brilliance with which she had so often eclipsed everyone else in the room.

_Every person has an intransient responsibility to their own life._

It was a lesson that Frederick Chilton had yet to learn.

It would be Hannibal Lecter that would teach him that lesson.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
